In the cold light of early morning, we all pile into the sedan. We only fit because the two babies sit on our laps. The faux maroon leather, which Dad would have never chosen for himself, cracks under our weight.
“So do we have to go to three churches in one day?” oldest little brother whines.
“No, we’ll go to a different church each week for three weeks,” mom said, explaining the work of a rotating pastor in the rural countryside.
“But why is it so far away?”
“This is where God wants us.”
Mom shoots a warning look towards us in the back seat from the vanity mirror. No one talks back. She turns up the radio. Dad asks again about the exit number, though it will be well over an hour before he needs to get off the freeway.
A flapping sound, and a low, metallic rattling emerges from under the dash.
“Stay under 65 with the whole family in the car,” Mom warns Dad.
“I’ll handle it!” Dad sputters and his jaw clenches.
The car’s engine cuts at 65 miles per hour and will have to be restarted. We cruise almost soundlessly, until the engine roars back to life, temporarily muting the radio. Dad then pushes up to the speed limit, 80.
“There, you see–it’s fine,” Dad sticks out his chin.
Baby brother keeps wriggling until he slides onto the floor. He settles there, so I hand him his car and leave him. The further we get from home, the greener it becomes outside. It’s hilly.
“Will there be other kids to play with?” middle-brother ponders, but no one answers him.
A billboard reads, “God listens,” and then directs you to tune in to FM 89.3, KSBJ, the very station blaring in our car.
We pass a diner. The flashing marquee promises fresh donuts and warm pies with neon steam curving upwards. The parking lot is packed with trucks and a lone tractor.
It’s barely April, but the humidity has made our skin stick to the seats. Beads of sweat gather above our lips even with the AC blasting. Dad turns down a gravel road and parks in the corner of the lot in the shade, farthest from the church.
We clamber out of the back seat, all limbs and awkward, now crumpled Sunday clothes. Eventually all five of us are out on the pavement, following our parents.
Folks stare at us. Dad is a large man, but is suddenly small in this crowd. Some men have camouflage hunting apparel and overalls. Dad is the only one wearing a tie and suit jacket. Several ladies have long braids snaking down their backs. There’s an earthy, intense smell, which I later learn is chewing tobacco.
We kids smile a lot, because we can’t completely understand everything they ask us.
A tall boy in boots with funny, sandy colored hair runs up with a sack of marbles and says something to my brothers so they follow him.
I’m stuck holding my baby sister and smiling at a lady I am introduced to as Mrs. Georgette, whose dentures keep clicking when she talks.
“I think her diaper needs changing,” I excuse myself and look for the diaper bag.
That first Sunday is long. On the walk back to the car, we all jump at a series of shotgun blasts echoing in the distance.
“Don’t worry,” Dad says, chuckling. “All the crooks are locked up at the jail down the highway. Everyone knows each other around here.”
****
That spring we return to the church at Thornfield every third week and fall into a compliant rhythm. Sundays feel like the longest days of the week. I wish I could get a job and skip them, but I have about a year and a half to go before I can do work other than babysitting.
The boy with the marbles annoys me the first time I really notice him–he’s loud. On the crown of his head, there is a cowlick which stubbornly sticks up. Occasionally, he licks his hand to pat it down, but it remains proud as a cock’s comb. The old ladies make a fuss over him, and he enjoys it. His name is John Michael.
My church shoes are stiff, and the tights I have to wear under my dress keep sliding down. The braids Mom did in the morning are too tight, pulling at my temples. But I love watching people, especially these “country folks” in the fellowship hall after the service.
John Michael squints at me, then winks.
“You don’t miss much do you?” he’d say. “Except you miss everything,” he laughs at his own joke.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you are always watching other folks, but from a distance, you don’t dip your toes in yourself,” he says, air pistols pointing in my direction.
I smile. “Just because I don’t speak redneck…”
“Aww, don’t fall off your perch up there, city girl,” he says, pulling my braids so I fall forward.
The next time I see him, he’s been recruited to hand out bulletins. Just as the service begins, he comes to join us in our pew, which is really just my little brothers and me, and old Mrs. Georgette who minds us while both Mom and Dad are working. The toddlers are in the nursery. His family usually sits on the other side of the aisle.
Without drawing any attention, he makes a rose garden on my arm, first lightly scratching the rows to “plant the seeds” then pinching up and down to make the “roses.” I attempt to return fire with an Indian burn, only to catch the glare of Mrs. Georgette.
Dad reminds us in the car afterward, eyeing me in the rear view mirror, that we need to set an example through our behavior and that we aren’t like these people, we have different values. We drive home mostly in silence, punctuated with KSBJ on in the background.
****
It’s my first year of high school and my weeks are peppered with track meets, tests, timed essays, and basketball. There is hardly time for shooting the breeze, as Mom calls it. The radio is my escape, but Dad doesn’t understand how I can concentrate with music on and sometimes barges in to turn it off.
“Is this The Jam of Pearls?” He chuckles. “It’s the alternative to music station.”
I roll my eyes, and Dad’s smile gets even bigger.
Sometimes, I am ordered to do homework at the kitchen table, which is much noisier than my room. I long for the lazy days of summer.
“Sweet, the kid across the street got a Hummer, and it doesn’t even fit in their driveway,” my middle brother bursts through the back door.
“Don’t let the screen door slam,” Dad shouts, too late. “If it breaks, a new door is coming out of your allowance!”
“It’s already broken!” my brother mumbles.
“He’s not even sixteen yet. How’s he going to learn how to drive with a Hummer?” Mom says, unconvinced, stirring the red beans. “I guess they learn on industrial farm equipment in the countryside.” Then she looks at the clock and shouts, “Sister, your carpool is gonna pull up any minute!”
“I’m right here,” I say. “And a carpool is when you also drive other people’s kids around, so, I’m just a freeloader.”
“Good Christians want to serve others; they aren’t transactional. You be sure to come straight home after basketball practice, young lady.”
“I’ll have to bum a ride,” I remind her.
“It wouldn’t hurt to smile more, and people might just offer!” she chirps after me.
I’ve tucked my track season shoes into my gym bag. They’re worn out and pinch my toes. A Beamer pulls up in front of the house. Through the window, I see my teammate pop up out of the sun roof as her mom honks the horn. My baby brother and sister are sledding down the stairs head first on what looks like Dad’s oversized edition of Atlas of the World. As I head out, I slam the door, making the front windows shudder.
****
I don’t have any real friends that are boys. With my 15th birthday coming up, I wonder about my first kiss. There are some cute boys at school. But I don’t know how to approach them, or what to say to them.
Every time I see John Michael, he approaches me. He usually has something to show me, or tells me a funny story. But he’s younger than me by at least a year.
It often feels like I’m not related to my parents, but this feels even more true for John Michael. His mom and dad have matching bobs, and work at the jail in Huntsville during the week. In spite of his thick glasses, his dad mostly avoids eye-contact.
At the church, John Michael’s dad is always busy. He acts like he owns the place, but is distant from the congregation, and especially with my family. Sometimes he fills the communion cups with grape juice but doesn’t hand the cups over directly like Dad, who tells each person, “The blood of Christ, shed for you.”
Sometimes I want to ask John Michael if he’s adopted, but I never work up the courage. It must be so different being an only child, though he is nothing like the cliché. I can’t imagine John Michael’s dad being the pastor when we are at Dad’s other churches, but that’s his role.
School is finally out and summer vacation always flies by, but the weeks between seeing John Michael start to feel long. Besides our awkward parents, the only thing we have in common is our freckles. Still, the time at church passes quickly with him sitting in our pew with me.
The church organizes a big Independence Day celebration. Dad prays for wisdom and guidance for the new president from Arkansas, who he refers to under his breath as “that jackass.”
After the local Fourth of July parade we all sit down to eat barbecue. Everyone compliments John Michael on “Pork Chop.”
“You made pork chops?” I ask him.
“No, Pork Chop is my pig. I won first prize for raising him at the County Fair.”
“Oh! Can I see him?”
“He’s on the grill! Go on up and get a helping!”
My stomach turns. I can’t finish my coleslaw or beans so I wander off. I feign cleaning up other people’s plates at other tables so I won’t be punished for being a picky eater and wasting food.
In the twilight before fireworks, John Michael grabs my hand. I follow him out towards the woods at the back of the church. He has a huge jar.
“Um, isn’t the graveyard back here?” I ask.
“Shhh, you’ll scare them away!” He hisses.
He motions to follow, so I do.
People’s laughter starts to fade the further we walk, and the hum of the cicadas grows. Suddenly, I see “them”— small sparks of light in the darkest shadows of the woods.
“Lightning bugs!”
He nods, and touches his forefinger to my lips to stay quiet.
I hear some whippoorwills from a distance, their distinct call familiar since childhood. Only hoot owls and whippoorwills make their calls at night. To my surprise, John Michael makes the same sound back.
He reaches out into the darkness, then motions again not to speak, and now I notice a flickering in the glass jar.
There are already a pair of lightning bugs! We venture a few yards further, until he motions for us to turn around and head back.
“How many did you get?” I reach for the jar.
“Just five. I’ll let them go in a while, I just want to show ‘em,” he says.
“And how did you make that whippoorwill call?”
“It keeps the Grim Reaper away. You know the legend, don’t you?”
I shake my head.
“Well, if you hear ‘em close, Natives say it means Death’s gonna visit your house. So, I figured out how to mimic their call, just to bounce it back in their direction.”
“That’s just some old story,” I tell him.
He cups his hands in front of his mouth, making the call again.
The fireworks begin and his fingers intertwine with mine in the dark. It feels like the lighting bugs are in my chest.
*****
Summer faded into fall and the routines of school and sports structured our days again.
John Michael and I start telling people we’re both 14, even though he’s 13, and I’ve just turned 15. I suppose we just want to be the same age.
“Dad, for Christmas, could I have a pair of boots and Wranglers, like John Michael?”
Dad eyes me, considering, before he speaks sternly.
“Those aren’t just for show. That boy works every day after school in those boots, not just during rodeo season. Where would you wear them? School?”
“Yeah, I don’t really need them,” I concede. The Junior League girls from school would be merciless.
****
After a service, with the odor of industrial lemon heavy in the air, Mom flits around like a hummingbird, squeezing folks’ arms and reassuring them that they’re in her prayers. Dad is surrounded by a small crowd until people have tears squeezed from their eyes from laughing so hard. My little brothers and baby sister run and shout, chasing each other.
“Your dad’s pretty funny for a city slicker,” John Michael tells me at the front of the church under the stained glass.
“I guess,” I say, not totally convinced.
I notice when John Michael’s dad appears, visiting over coffee, the conversation stalls, and people shift uneasily, and excuse themselves to get refills. The one time I see him smile is when he brings a Christmas tree to church which he had cut down himself from his land.
****
It’s early spring when we’ve been going to Dad’s three different churches for almost a year. I look forward to every third Sunday at Thornfield.
Today, John Michael slips me a donut hole, smuggled from the refreshments meant for after church. I sit between him and Mrs. Georgette waiting for church to begin.
“My dad will marry us,” he whispers into my ear, brushing my hair out of the way.
“The hell he will. You’re crazy. Anyway, my dad is the head pastor.”
“Visiting pastor. My dad is the pastor most Sundays.”
I stick my tongue out at him and tug just hard enough to untuck his dress shirt from the front of his waistband.
He leans into me and taps his fingers on my knee, lingering.
“You have a Spring Fling dance at your school?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I look up at him. He’s starting to win in our height competition.
Mrs. Georgette clomps her foot and frowns at us. Even her silver curls look angry.
John Micheal stares ahead and lowers his voice to barely a whisper.
“Would you wanna take me?” He presses a fresh four-leafed clover into the palm of my hand.
“We’d have to ask my dad,” I whisper.
He nods, spits in his palm and shakes my hand. Mom gives us a cutting look from her perch in the choir chancel.
****
The next time we return to Thornfield, there’s only Mrs. Georgette sitting in the front row. Maybe today we can ask Dad about the dance.
I sit next to her, waiting for John Michael, who never comes.
“Where’s John Michael?” I ask her at the end of the service.
“Your daddy’ll tell you, hon,” she says and clasps my hand to her heaving breast.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Georgette?”
She squeezes my hand tightly and turns away.
There was no plan for luncheon nor donuts served afterwards as there usually was.
We all bundled into the car we barely fit into straight after the service. For once, the babies are still sleeping from the nursery. It was cold and windy. A late freeze had killed all the spring tulips that had just been planted out in front of the church for Easter.
I imagine a snake bite, then a car accident, and John Michael being in the hospital, recovering in time for the Spring Fling.
“Dad, where’s John Michael?”
“So, his dad was pretty upset when I got the permanent head pastor position and he didn’t,” Dad started. “Everyone else voted for me, with the exception of his wife, maybe.”
My head felt fuzzy trying to connect what that had to do with John Michael. And when had the grownups voted on head pastor?
“So, what happened to John Michael?” I asked again.
“Honey, the Devil got to his dad, and he got to him real bad. He wasn’t himself.”
My dad, with irritation, wiped away an orphan tear and focused on the road.
“What happened?”
“They’re all gone, honey. The crazy bastard shot them all and shot himself too.”
Dad’s jaw clenches and unclenches, the way it does before he loses his temper.
I lower my eyes and my voice. “Will there be a funeral?”
“There already was, sweetheart. Two weeks ago.” Dad put his hand softly on my knee from the front seat. “It isn’t really a place for young people, trust me, it’s no fun.”
I realize this must have happened soon after the last time that I saw him. My mouth feels dry and my throat is tight. It takes effort to speak.
“Why….why didn’t you tell me?”
Dad coughs, keeps his eyes on the road and exits.
“But we were going to go to the school dance!”
Mom butts in. “Don’t forget who’s in charge, young lady: Almighty God. I know it feels unfair, but the Lord is taking care of your friend, just like he takes care of us all.”
“Don’t you have an algebra test tomorrow you need to study for?” Dad asks as he opens the car door to refuel at the gas station.
“And an away basketball game this week! Go Lady Falcons!” mom adds.
My brothers, on either side of me, continue fighting over who gets to play Tetris on the Gameboy.
As we drive through the hills, the tall grass outside looks strangely like waves on the ocean. I pick at the tattered sole of my shoe.
Dad, turning the dial to find good reception, mostly just gets static on the radio. After a moment, he briefly stops on the alternative station, 94.5, The Buzz, and it comes through clearly.
He locks eyes with me in the rearview mirror, and bats Mom’s hand away when she tries to change it.
“What’s this band called?” he asks.
Meghan Smith (b.1981, New Orleans, U.S.A.) is a Helsinki-based educator and writer. For Smith, who hails from a journalism background, crafting creative non-fiction and essays feel like Sunday mornings. Deviating into fiction has been an earnest and mostly rewarding experiment. In literature, Smith appreciates lush, sensorial imagery as well as vulnerability. “Amber Waves of Grain” is her first published short story.
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